


Mess is Sweet

by Rednaelo



Series: Fraggin Nasty [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Face-Sitting, Illustrated, M/M, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rednaelo/pseuds/Rednaelo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tailgate riding Cyc’s face (sweet jellybean)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mess is Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Concept and fic by me; art by the adorable and precious [Sasha](http://gayrusvakarian.tumblr.com/post/91986474232/rednaelo-gayrusvakarian-tiny-minibot-sitting), love of my life.

He’s shaking as he crawls up my body. Like there’s something fundamentally foreign about me with my spinal strut against the berth and him looking down at me.  His optics can’t focus on any one thing.  Especially not my face.  One nano-klik of lingering contact and he’s turning his gaze elsewhere, mumbling an unintelligible stream of static-strewn whispers.  I can catch words like, “can’t believe this is happening,” and, “oh, Primus, I don’t know if I….”

His vents huff a harsh push of hot air when I slide my digits up his legs towards the gaps between his plating.  The tender spots where hips connect to thighs are visible; dark and corded, tension strong along the blackness of those lines as his legs spread and his knees plant – shaking – on either side of my helm.  He shudders so hard his armor rattles when I caress the smoothness of his cabling. The retraction of his interface plate is sudden and he cries out weakly when it clicks back, as if it were an accident.

But there he is above me, his little shoulders heaving as he tries to vent fast enough to keep himself cool, every limb trembling with the effort to keep himself still for me, and the soft, elastic folds of his valve gently contracting with each shudder, slicked shiny with lubricant. 

I’m rather positive my lack of movement is distressing him—he keeps up his babble even after both of his hands have pressed against his faceplate, only the barest glint of blue peeking through his digits as he mumble-mutters in a shivering panic—but I dare not waste the moment.  What softness he possesses, what delicate internal machinery, what vulnerability….  A timid little thing is he.  But here, with his thighs spread so and the utmost of his weakness laid bare for me….  He is beautiful.  Infinitesimal against the universe and all of its spinning stars and I find him as lovely as anything ever formed.  All mine, in this moment.  He is so near, I can feel his heat against my lips.  I catch a swelling drop of fluid at the tip of my glossa before it falls and when our bodies have that first, barest contact, his servos brace hard against the wall.

“Cyclonus, Primus, I can’t –!”

My digits shift; I stroke them carefully as I can at his seams while I guide him downwards.  There’s a gentle hiss as I retract my own interface panel, my spike pressurizing in tandem with my glossa once again meeting the folds of Tailgate’s valve.  His moan sounds more like a whine; his thighs are still trembling with tension.  My optics shutter and I press my glossa in deep, flicking it against his external node when I withdraw.  It’s like his spinal strut doesn’t know if it should be keeping him ramrod straight or make him collapse onto me.

I kiss at the gaps between his plating, my wet lips leaving behind stains of lubricant on his cording.

“Relax, Tailgate,” I say, a little more loudly than I would prefer.  He’s ventilating so heavily it’d be hard to hear me otherwise.  His bright blue optics shimmer down at me.  “Let your hips move as they will.”

It takes him a few kliks and a hard swallow before he lowers himself again.  I kiss deeply at his valve and keep my digits loose on his hips: enough to steady him, not too much to keep him from moving.  And though every outward vent is melodious with his whimpering, Tailgate begins to ease.  His hips rock gently, pushing forward to meet the strokes of my glossa as I lick at the folds of his valve, the firm nub of his external sensory node.  Every now and then something will hitch in his vents, he’ll sigh out shakily, and his servos will shift as he readjusts.  Before long, he foregoes the hindered and cautious back-and-forth and actually presses down against my mouth.

This is right.  This pressure is perfect.  And in a moment of heat and pleasure so potent it practically glitches through me, my servos pull down at his hips, his thighs, and I bury my face between his legs.  I hear him gasp out my name, the syllables of it tangled between half-formed words and exclamations of dizzied pleasure.  Unheeded, he grinds down against my lips and tongue, the wet mesh of his valve pushing against my mouth.  This kind of kiss is sweet and heady, firing through my circuits like pulses of starlight.

I could lose myself in this moment, let it constrict around my processor and rewire everything that has made me who I am until this day.  I could, were I not so pointedly and willfully anchored to Tailgate and his every movement, every nano-klik of contact that we share.  His voice is a consistent rhythm of gasps and sighs interspersed with cries of my name and while his servos grip tight around my horns and his hips undulate vigorously, I can feel his heat resonating through me, helm to pedes.

“Cy – nnh! C-Cyclonus, I can’t…! I’m gonna overload, ‘m gonna over – hhn!”

His outbursts only make me pull him closer. I wrap my lips around his external node and slide two digits up into his valve as deeply as I can.  Two kliks, lubricant spurting into my mouth and down my own thighs and he overloads—his voice glitching, beautifully broken, as he cries out.  I pull my digits from him and suck at the swollen, contracting folds of his valve as his hips convulse and he shivers.  His fluids spill hotly down my chin and neck and my body heaves with the efforts of ventilating.  Sparks of pleasure rain down my spinal strut and gather in a burning mass like a smelting pool inside of me.

“Cyclonus…Cyclonus….”

Tiny digits unclench and peel away from my horns.  His thighs tremble as he shuffles backwards on his knees and stops when his aft collides with my chassis, letting out a surprised little, “oh!” as if he forgot that we were both corporeal and not simply interwoven amalgamations of pure pleasure and boundless delight.

I lift him up and tuck him against my side.  He vents slowly, deliberately.  I can almost hear him counting to himself as he draws cooler air inside.  My optics linger on him while my other senses catalogue the slip of transfluid – his and mine – on my body.  It wets the inside of his thighs, on those delicate, dark cables, and he shivers as his interface panel attempts to shut once again.  He nudges it back open, optics blinking quietly, serenely, up at me, as if he can access my processor simply by meeting my gaze.

“More?” he asks.  The glitch from his vocalizer has eased away now that he’s cooled down a little.  His timid little question pulls an unbidden smile from me and I let it show on my stained lips.  From the way his visor shifts I can tell he’s smiling ever brighter.

“So much more,” I promise.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like, you can get both art and fic on tumblr at our [dumb blog!](http://fragginnasty.tumblr.com) We'd love to see you there!


End file.
